


these, our bodies, possessed by light

by TheFlirtMeister



Series: in the back of the car as the lights go by [3]
Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Churches & Cathedrals, M/M, Religious Conflict, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 13:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14770793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlirtMeister/pseuds/TheFlirtMeister
Summary: There are posters on either side of the church double doors, proclaiming the terrifying and frightening work of Christ.(Roman thinks he could give Christ a run for his money.)





	these, our bodies, possessed by light

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to ardentlyopposedfoes for putting up with me and helping me with this fic!! I started this bullshit on the 18th of March and I'm v grateful <33

Roman jolts awake when the car stops. They’ve been driving through the night, Roman passing out around 1 in the morning, listening to smooth easy jazz as Peter hummed along. His neck aches from where he had his head tilted backwards, and he turns from side to side to click it, looking around.

Peter is still sitting next to him, hands gripped tight around the steering wheel. He’s brought them to a stop in a church parking lot, surrounded by other cars and families in their best clothes. Roman accidentally catches the eye of a small girl holding her mother’s hand, and the girl looks away, afraid of him.

“Why are we here?” Roman asks blearily.

“I don’t know.” Peter replies. His tone is clipped, and Roman sits up in his seat.

“Are you okay?” He asks. He reaches out with one hand to touch Peter’s face, then reconsiders, so his hand hangs in mid air.

Peter lets out a sigh, and then turns his head so that Roman’s knuckles brush against his cheek. “I just- Wanted to come here. To talk. I don’t know. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

Roman wants to tell Peter that he can always talk to him, but he knows it isn’t true. Instead he draws his hands away, settling them in his lap. Peter is looking at him with big wide eyes, and Roman, who has never felt any faith, lies to him.

“It makes sense.” He says, “I understand why you’d want to come to a place like this.”

Roman casts a glance at the church. It’s a huge brown brick building with a white steeple that makes the church stand out, and a sign out the front with directions to the graveyard. There are also posters on either side of the double doors, proclaiming the terrifying and frightening work of Christ.

(Roman thinks he could give Christ a run for his money.)

Peter runs a hand through his short hair, and then rubs his beard. They should have bought razors on their last gas station stop, but instead they had made out in the toilets, Roman on Peter’s lap, kissing desperately until they couldn’t breathe. Roman would happily let Peter kiss away his breath forever.

“I wouldn’t take you as someone who believes in God.” Peter says.

“I could say the same about you.” Roman replies. He tilts his head to one side, looking at Peter. “Hey, do you know that you look like Jesus a little bit?”

“Oh fuck off.” Peter says, snorting, and climbs out of the car.

*

The church is full of people, and Roman is uncomfortable. He doesn’t like people at the best of times, and he doesn’t like the way they all turn to stare at him. Peter walks down the aisle of the church like he’s been there a thousand times, but Roman hangs behind, sloping after him.

He expected that they would have taken a seat at the back, out of sight. Roman and Peter stand out, Roman with his height, his dark eyes, the fact that he has too many teeth in his mouth. Peter’s eyes are yellow, his fingers quick. Romani through and through.

Peter walks right up to the front of the church, crossing himself, and then takes a seat at the front pew. Roman follows him, slipping into the seat beside him and staring up at the altar. A huge Jesus statue, complete with stigmata, hangs from the ceiling on metal chains. Roman stares up at it, and wonders why the fuck Christians are like this.

The arrival of the priest is marked by ringing bells and smoke, and everyone in the congregation stands. Peter stands too, with his eyes shut, swaying back and forth like God himself is about to enter him. Roman thinks of the two of them fucking in a hotel room, Peter groaning out the big man’s name, and the thought makes Roman smirk.

They’ve been sleeping together a lot. Roman has always enjoyed sex, but he’s never had sex with someone he loves. Roman has fucked his own fair share of men and women, but they’ve just been cold and dead eyed, laying there mechanically as Roman thrusts into them. With Peter, Roman is kissed, and fucked, and pleasured until Roman is crying out like a teenager, cock leaking against his stomach.

“You need to be controlled.” Peter tells him once, sitting on his thighs to keep Roman pinned to the bed.

“Fuck you.” Roman hisses back, and whines when Peter kisses him.

The priest is a balding man with narrow eyes, like a weasel. He stands at the pulpit, in robes that are far too expensive for a church going man, and stares at the people before him. His eyes slide over them easily, until he gets to Peter and Roman in the first row. He stops, looking at them like they have four heads between them, and then raises his arms to the heavens.

“In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.” Peter and the congregation echo, and Roman realises he is out of his depth.

*

After the sermon is over, which Roman keeps almost falling asleep during, the priest stops them before they can leave. The other church members have started to slowly move towards the room at the back, where tea, coffee, and food is being served.

“I haven’t seen you before, my children.” The priest says, and Peter offers his hand.

“We just wanted to go to a mass.” Peter says, “I’m Peter.”

“Ah, named for the Saint?” The priest asks, shaking Peter’s hand.

“Obviously.” Peter says, smiling, and then pulls Roman forward. “This is my friend, Roman.”

“ _If you declare with your mouth, Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved, Romans 10:9_.” The priest says, taking hold of Roman’s hand. “You will be saved.”

Roman squirms. “I don’t think I need to be saved.”

“Everyone needs to be saved.” The priest says. “But not everybody knows it.”

Roman glances at Peter, who nods, looking interested. Roman wonders if they’re drifting apart, that now that they’ve finally realised that they love each other, that there’s nothing else to do.

“Peter.” He says, and tugs on Peter’s jacket sleeve like a child. “Can we-“

“I want to talk, for a while.” Peter says, without looking at Roman.

Roman bites at his bottom lip, tasting blood. He takes a step away from Peter, the jacket falling from his grip.

(God doesn’t want you to be happy, he wants you to be strong.)

*

Roman’s toilet cubicle has a small window that he can open, and therefore, he can smoke. He sits up on the toilet seat so that nobody can see his feet from underneath the stall door, and exhales smoke rings, one, two three.

He had never taken Peter for a religious man before, but obviously there’s something there. Romani and their superstitions, Peter and his constant searching for someone to tell him what to do. Roman could be that person for Peter, he thinks. His powers could be considered godly. Or satanic.

It’s a good ten minutes later when the bathroom door opens, and then closes. Roman can see the shadow of someone underneath the stall door, and takes a long drag of his cigarette. The smoke burns his lungs, but he’s used to that by now. He’s suffered worse.

“Are you in here?” Peter asks.

Roman climbs off the toilet lid, unlocking the door for Peter. It swings open, creaking, and Peter stands in front of it, arms folded.

“Have you found Jesus?” Roman asks him.

Peter shrugs. “Why are you in here smoking?”

“Because I didn’t want to go outside.” Roman stubs the cigarette out on the window sill, leaving the still smoking cigarette there. He sits back down on the toilet lid, looking up at Peter.

“You’ll cause a fire risk.”

“I am, by definition, a fire risk.” Roman says.

Peter steps forward into the stall, closing the door behind him. He turns to lock it, and then back to Roman. They stare each other down.

“Give me your hand.” Peter says. It comes out as a demand.

Roman offers him his hand, palm upright. Peter takes hold of it, lifting it up so Roman looks like he is telling someone to stop. Peter presses his finger to the centre of Roman’s palm, using his nail to dig into the skin.

“Stigmata.” Peter says, “Is considered incredibly holy.”

“I’ve always told myself that I was a miracle.” Roman says, and Peter takes hold of his other hand, repeating his strange gesture.

“You sure are something Roman.” Peter says. He lays his own hands flat against Roman’s.

“What did you talk to your little priest friend about?” Roman asks.

“About loss. And grief. And monsters.” Peter says. “Things that go bump in the night.”

“Are there any werewolves in Catholicism?” Roman asks Peter. Their hands are pressed flat against one another, and they are pushing, as if trying to knock the other one over.

“Werewolves are the work of the devil.” Peter says.

“I’d hate to know what the Church thinks about vampires.” Roman says, and manages to push back against Peter hard enough that he stumbles backwards.

They stare at one another. Roman feels hurt, and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want Peter to leave him. He doesn’t want Peter to think he’s a monster. He doesn’t want Peter to hate him, or himself.

“Another form of stigmata is a mark on your side.” Peter says. “When Jesus was stabbed to make sure he was dead.”

“Are you going to stab me?” Roman asks.

The automatic lights go off because neither of them are moving. Roman imagines a blade in the darkness, pushed sharply between his ribs where the softness is. A slack mouth, a silent cry. Peter’s knuckles white around the dagger hilt.

“Do you care about me?” Peter asks.

How can Roman respond to that? Roman would willingly tear out his own heart for Peter, offer it up on a plate like the head of John the Baptist.

“I crave you.” Roman tells him.

Peter leans in, and Roman instinctively shrinks away from him. Peter doesn’t notice, or ignores it, pressing his mouth to Roman’s neck, each move calculated. They both know that strange things happen in the dark.

“I crave you too.” Peter says, whispering the word into Roman’s earlobe.

He bites down, and Roman gives a moan, the noise drawn out from deep in his throat. He reaches out, taking hold of Peter’s waist and gripping him hard, imagining the purple bruises there tomorrow night.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, “I’m sorry for bringing you here.”

“You should have known I’d never do well in church.” Roman tells him, and Peter snorts from where his nose is buried in Roman’s neck.

“You stupid fucking vampire.” He says. He bites down on Roman’s neck at the pulse point, and then sucks down, pulling against the flesh to create a bruise.

“Fuck you.” Roman says, breathing out the words.

“We can leave if you want.” Peter tells him. “Get out of here. Don’t look back.”

Roman pushes his thumb into Peter’s stomach, where the stigmata would be. Peter places his hand over Roman’s own, holding him there firmly.

“I saw a graveyard when we came in.” Roman says, and Peter cocks his head to one side.

“What about it?” He asks, and Roman looks at Peter through his eyelashes, the way he does when he wants something.

“I want to fuck on a grave.” He says, and Peter splutters.

“You want to-“ He starts, and then laughs. “Fine. Let’s fuck on a grave you goddamn creep.”

Roman presses his mouth against Peter’s, marvelling at how they fit together so perfectly. Like God made them for each other. “Let’s cause a scene.”

“Like we ever do anything else.” Peter says, and nips at Roman’s lip.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed!


End file.
